


Just Add Eggnog

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baker!Simon Snow, Baking, Christmas, Holidays, M/M, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28339755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: Simon and Baz go to Hampshire for the Christmas holidays.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68
Collections: Secret Snowflake 2020





	Just Add Eggnog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moth_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth_writes/gifts).



> This is my Secret Snowflake gift for the lovely Emma! Hope you like it, and that it makes you smile. <3

**Baz**

Christmas has always been an event to remember when it comes to Snow and I. Two years ago, he showed up unannounced (though I did _technically_ invite him), and the impression he made on my family was…interesting, shall we say. We kissed for the first time, and agreed to continue doing so, before everything went to hell with the Humdrum and the Mage. Last year, my father was still too angry about the damage to the property and the loss of magic (which has since returned) to allow Simon to visit, so we stayed back in London. So this year, Simon is determined to make the holidays a merry and bright occasion, and to prove to my father and Daphne (though she’s not the one that needs convincing) that he can be a proper partner for the heir of the Pitch empire. 

I’ve tried to explain about a hundred times that he doesn’t need to prove himself, or pretend to be someone he’s not for their sake. I love Simon exactly as he is, even when he scrapes his teeth on his fork, or chews with his mouth open, or pulverizes an entire plate of scones without offering them to anyone else. He’s disgustingly dear to me, and no putting on of airs in front of my parents is going to change that. But Simon is Simon, stubborn and hot-headed by nature, and very insistent that he’s going to show Father that he can wear the right clothes and use the right forks and spoons for each course at dinner. And who am I to deny him this one thing, if it’s what he wants? 

It’s nearly the end of term, so Bunce and I are seated at the small dining room table in the flat she and Simon share, revising for our respective final examinations. Simon is pottering away at the kitchen counter, practicing the puddings he’s planning on bringing to Hampshire for Christmas; he’s taking it as seriously as if he were preparing to be a contestant on Bake-Off. It’s ridiculous, but also wonderful, because for the first time in ages, he seems really, truly _happy_. 

“Baz, would you taste this icing for me and tell me if it’s any good?” He asks, swiping up a bit of off-white frosted goodness on his index finger and holding it out for me. The bakery he’s taken a job at has provided ample inspiration for his holiday baking plans. 

“Use a spoon, you animal,” I sneer before popping his finger into my mouth. The icing is just the right amount of sweet, and tastes like…eggnog? “Oh, that’s brilliant, love. My father is quite partial to eggnog, you know.” 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m doing this one,” he explains, grabbing his recipe book with his sticky fingers and holding it up so I can see the photo above the baking instructions. “And then there’ll be a chocolate torte for Daphne, and gingerbread for the twins, and Mordelia said she’d really like some maple fudge—” 

“Don’t you think all of this is a bit overkill?” Bunce asks, glancing up from her textbook, highlighter in hand. “I’m sure the Grimms are planning on serving something other than pudding, Si.” His face falls at her words, which puts me immediately on the offensive. 

“You can make as much as you like, darling,” I insist, sliding a finger through one of the belt loops on his jeans and pulling him closer so I can press an encouraging kiss to his lips. “I’m sure everyone will love whatever you bring.” When he heads back to the kitchen, I shoot Bunce a murderous glare. 

“What the _fuck,_ Penelope? Let him bake if that’s what he wants,” I hiss, keeping my voice down so we won’t be overheard. 

“I just don’t want him to get overwhelmed, _Basil,_ ” she retorts, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “You know he tends to bite off more than he can chew with these projects of his.” 

She’s not wrong. Simon once spent nearly six hours preparing a multi-course dinner just because Bunce’s parents were stopping by to check out the flat. It was a true miracle that nothing was burned, though he did set off the fire alarm twice. He also had me cast _Nothing to see here_ on the mountain of dishes he made while cooking so the Bunces wouldn’t realize how much work he’d done. He slept for 12 full hours that night, he was so exhausted. 

“I’m keeping an eye on him,” I insist, continuing to glare. “If he starts getting anxious or overwhelmed, I swear to you that I’ll get him to tone it down, all right?” 

“Fine,” she snips, turning back to her laptop. “Since you obviously know him best…” 

I _do_ know Simon best. He’s my boyfriend, and the love of my life, and I shared a room with him for seven bloody years. If someone else knows him better than I do, they’d be hard-pressed to prove it. I’ll admit that I spent most of the years we knew each other doing my best to grievously injure him, or secretly hoping he’d be killed by a magickal creature so I could move on from my unrequited love for him, but I’m doing my best to make up for all of that now that we’re together. I will _not_ let him burn himself out over a few puddings. 

* * * * * 

Simon’s therapist suggested that we work to create some holiday traditions together, as a way to liven up the holidays and create some stability in this season that typically revolves around time with family. So we decorated the flat with all manner of gaudy holiday paraphernalia — shiny red and green tinsel, charity shop baubles for the tree (Simon insisted we be thrifty), and multicoloured strings of lights. Because he’d never had a real tree before, I went out and spent £40 on a nice Nordmann fir at B&Q’s, which I discreetly shrunk down to sapling size so I could bring it home on the tube. Simon looked like a kid on Christmas when I spelled it back to its original seven-foot height once we had it in the sitting room. 

Something that was really important to Simon was that we do something for others in need this time of year. We went to the pound shop down the street and stocked up on hygiene products, warm socks, and some snacks so that we could put together care packages for the boys at a local group home. Simon baked gingerbread biscuits to add some holiday flare to the packages, and we delivered them together earlier this week. He got a little glassy-eyed in the car on the way home, so I just held his hand and let him process whatever feelings he was having. He’s mentioned before that lots of the boys he lived with ended up on the streets or crashing on friends’ couches night after night because it was better than being in care; I think it weighs it him sometimes, the fact that he’s got a family now when so many others don’t. 

We participate in other popular holiday activities as well: wearing ugly Christmas sweaters (courtesy of Bunce), purchasing peppermint-flavoured drinks from Starbucks, kissing beneath cleverly placed sprigs of mistletoe. (That one isn’t so bad.) We have a gingerbread house-building contest that Snow wins by a landslide, which I insist (unsuccessfully) should be considered cheating because he works in a bloody bakery, and practically builds houses from biscuits for a living this time of year. It’s all dreadfully twee, but as we come closer to Christmas, I’ve noticed the glow of holiday spirit in Simon’s eyes. He naps less often, his cider intake has significantly decreased, and he’s been _very_ enthusiastic about the mistletoe. I wish I could bottle this joy up so he can draw from it once the holidays are over. 

The evening before we leave for Hampshire to stay with my family, we have a movie night at his and Bunce’s flat. Simon believes (incorrectly) that _Die Hard_ is _the_ quintessential holiday film, so that’s what he insists on watching. Bunce and I don’t care much for it, but we power through it for his sake. The three of us munch on baked goods Simon brought home from work and enjoy one last evening of quality time together before we go our separate ways for a week or so. 

The next morning, Simon is up bright and early to put the finishing touches on the puddings he’s prepared for my family. They take up nearly every inch of countertop in the kitchen — which is a bit much, I’ll admit — but he’s thrilled with them, and proud of his hard work. 

Simon still has to pack, so I sample a biscuit or two while he rifles through his drawers for clean pants and socks. He borrowed a suit of mine last year for dinner, but this year, I insisted on buying something for him despite his protests that it was “too much”. What can I say? He looks delectable in formalwear, especially when it’s tailored properly. Our garment bags are already hanging from the extended handle of my suitcase by the front door so that we won’t have to turn around halfway to Hampshire because Simon forgot his suit. 

Around noon, my father’s vehicle pulls up outside the flat, and I get a short text letting me know that he’s parked by the kerb. It takes several trips up and down the stairs to get our bags, wrapped gifts and baked goods into the vehicle, but we manage it ourselves, and are on the road in good time. Simon managed to not drop anything important as we load the car, which is good. I’m nervous about the possibility of things going wrong, because I don’t want him to be disappointed by anything this year. 

When we arrive at my parents’ house just over an hour later, the children are all eagerly awaiting our arrival by the window that looks out onto the front garden. They barely give us a moment to breathe before they’re on us, especially the twins, who _adore_ Simon. He lets them each carry a tray of biscuits into the kitchen while he takes responsibility for the heaviest of the bags and boxes, which they take very seriously. 

“I hope you’ve let Father Christmas know you’re staying this year,” Mordelia tells him with a knowing wink. She’s discovered over the last year that Father Christmas is actually just _Father,_ and is delighted to have a special secret to keep from the little ones. 

“Wrote him a letter weeks ago,” Simon tells her, giving the top of her head an affectionate rub with the palm of his hand. She squeaks at having her hair mussed, but her cheeks pink up with the private joy of having an older brother figure that loves her. 

Once we’ve unloaded the gifts and stowed them beneath the tree in one of the sitting rooms, the girls pile onto the sofa beside Simon and pepper him with questions about his new job and our life in London. We come for dinner at least once a month, so the girls have had a chance to get to know him in the two years we’ve been dating. While Father may still have his doubts, all four of my siblings are adamant that Simon is part of our family now. 

“Basil, love,” Daphne calls from the doorway of the sitting room. She’s dressed in a lovely burgundy cocktail dress, and a dainty string of white pearls hangs at her throat — last year’s Christmas gift from me. “Would you join me in the kitchen for a moment?” There’s a smile pasted on her face, though I can tell from the slight wrinkle between her brows that something is wrong. 

“Of course,” I answer, casting a glance towards Simon to make sure he’s all right to be left alone with the children. Acantha is seated on the back of the sofa behind him, weaving her little fingers through his curls, and Ophelia is in his lap, her head resting against his shoulder. Mordelia listens in rapture as he describes the intricate five-tier wedding cake he made at the bakery last week. 

I think they’ll be fine. 

**Simon**

Not sure where Baz and his stepmum have gone off to, but the three girls and I spend a good long while chatting in the sitting room. All of them are wearing matching black dresses with red satin sashes tied round their waists, which is adorable. They’ve given me their opinions on which bowtie I should wear to dinner tonight, and the consensus is that I should wear the red one so we can all match. 

The first Christmas I came to Pitch Manor, the children just stared at me constantly, but because I’ve a lot of experience with kids, it only took a few weekend visits (and a pocket filled with sweets) to persuade them to give me a chance — to see beyond the ‘Chosen One’ image they’d been fed by Malcolm. Now we’re as thick as thieves, the girls and I, much to Malcolm’s dismay. 

It’s not that Baz’s dad is a bad guy. He’s the patriarch of the most powerful magickal families in the World of Mages, and a respected member of the Coven. His distrust for the Mage extended to me as well, and it’s been hard for him to set that aside. Plus, I’m not the prim and polished heiress he imagined for Baz; I’m a skint bloke with dragon wings and a _tail_ , no semblance of proper manners, and I’ve lost my magic — a vital part of the Grimm and Pitch families’ identity. 

And to be fair, I’ve not always made the best impression on him in the past. The first time I came here, I did burn down half the trees on the property and (accidentally, mind you!) punch a hole in the magickal atmosphere around Pitch Manor. 

But this year, I’m determined to show Malcolm I’m right for Baz. I’ve brought the right clothes to wear for dinner, I’ve learned the right order in which to use all the forks and spoons, and I worked hard as hell on the puddings we brought from London. Even if I can’t impress him with my skill in magic, perhaps I can bake something that’ll make him want me to come back for the next family holiday gathering. 

The girls are in the process of investigating my tail — tickling the spade until I cry with laughter, more like — when Baz returns to the sitting room, his face paler than usual and his mouth pressed in a hard line. He stops in the doorway and regards me with uncertainty. 

“Everything all right?” I ask, concerned by his sudden change in mood. He looked happy enough when he wandered off with Daphne. 

“You’d best come see for yourself,” he says, grimacing. “No one’s hurt…there’s just been a casualty with the baking.” 

Well, shit. 

“Sorry, girls, back in a mo,” I tell them, lifting Ophelia out of my lap and setting her down on the sofa beside me. Baz’s concerned expression and vague explanation has me spooked. I get up and follow him down the hall towards the kitchen. 

“The cook was trying to get everything in from the car, but I guess she was carrying too much at once,” Baz explains as we walk. “It’s just the one pudding that’s been ruined, but I know how much these all meant to you.” We step into the kitchen, and there on the counter is the crumbled remnants of my gingerbread bundt cake — the one with the eggnog icing and sugared cranberries that I made _specifically_ for Malcolm. 

“No!” I cry out in dismay. “Fuck, Baz, this was for your dad. Of all the things that could have been wrecked, why did it have to be this one?” 

“Mr. Snow, I am _so_ sorry,” says a woman in a white chef’s coat standing on the other side of the kitchen, who I didn’t notice until just now. She looks properly distraught. “I should have been more careful, taken more trips instead of trying to get things inside so quickly…” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say, shaking my head. 

“Well, technically it was—” Baz starts, but I cut him off with a sharp look. 

“Accidents happen,” I say diplomatically, not wanting to blame the cook, even if she was a bit careless, “And it’s not the end of the world, there’s plenty of baking to go around.” Glancing up at the clock on the wall of the kitchen, I consider my options. There are still a few hours left until dinner, so if they have all the ingredients I need, it’s possible that I could make another cake. 

“Miss, would you mind if I join you in here for an hour or two?” I ask the cook. Based on the vegetables laid out on cutting boards, she’s in the middle of making dinner for the family. “I’d stay out of your way as much as possible.” 

“Or, if she has time, you could just give her the recipe?” Baz suggests, setting his hand against my lower back. My tail winds its way around his arm; it’s got a mind of its own, the silly thing. 

“No, I need to be the one to make it,” I say firmly, meeting his eyes. “It’s important to me.” 

“Of course you can, Mr. Snow,” the cook assures me, waving her arm over the kitchen, which is empty but for the three of us. “You’re welcome to use anything we have, so long as it’s not already in use. If there’s anything you need, I’ll send someone to the shop to pick it up right away.” 

_Brilliant._ Not everyone who runs a kitchen is so willing to share their cooking space. Though I suppose if she were to turn me down, it would reflect poorly on her, especially since I’m dating her employer’s son. I’m grateful either way. 

“That means you’re on babysitting duty, love,” I say, turning back to Baz. “The girls want to play boardgames, and they’ll come hunting for me in a minute if you don’t hurry back.” 

“You’re a menace,” he tells me before leaning forward to press a cool kiss to my lips. The cook spins around and busies herself chopping vegetables so as not to seem like she’s ogling us or something. Once Baz is gone, I join her at the stainless steel worktop in the centre of the kitchen, being careful not to touch anything with my unwashed hands. 

“Any chance you’d have an apron or something like it I can borrow?” I inquire, watching as she dices a potato with expert speed. “Baz will kill me if I show up to dinner covered in flour.” 

“Of course — jackets are in the middle drawer, right over there,” she says, pointing. I make sure to check the tags for sizes, and fish out jacket that I think will work. Black mesh hairnets are in a box on the counter, so I grab one of those as well and snap it in place over my curls. Once I’ve pulled up the recipe on my phone, I scrub my hands clean. 

The cook (whose name is Marjory — I asked) is good about helping me find all the ingredients I need. She even has stock of the things I didn’t expect her to have — cranberries, eggnog, rosemary, bourbon — so no one has to run out to the shop. She preheats the oven for me, because the ovens in her kitchen are quite different from the ones I use at the bakery, and then she’s good to keep going on her preparations while I work on the cake. 

We chat as we work, mostly discussing food and cooking. Turns out she did her training at a well-known culinary school in London, and has been working for the Grimms since Baz was young. She asks after my experience, noticing that I’m closely following proper food hygiene practices, and I tell her about my job at the bakery. 

“I always thought it would be fun to do more baking,” she says wistfully, glancing over as I mix my wet ingredients together. 

“Why don’t you, then?” I wonder. 

“Oh, I’m much too old for that, now,” she laughs. “I’ve got grandchildren to look after, you know.” 

“Baking with kids is all sorts of fun,” I insist. “Baz and I had the girls over for a night at our flat once, and we made cookies together. It was a proper mess, but they loved it.” 

“If I might say so, Mr. Snow,” Marjory says cautiously, “young Mr. Pitch has been much happier than I’ve ever seen him before, ever since you started coming round.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” I tell her in earnest. “Baz makes me happy, too. We were roommates at school, you know.” 

“I think it’d be impossible _not_ to know, with how much he always talked about you,” she says with a sly smile. My cheeks flush red, but I’m not so much embarrassed as I am pleased. Though I do wish Baz and I could have been friends all those years we spent fighting. 

I get my cake finished in good time, and while it bakes, I work on the eggnog glaze, mixing together a generous amount of cream cheese, butter, icing sugar, and the namesake ingredient. Once I’ve sugared the decorative cranberries and cut a few small sprigs of rosemary for garnishing, I set it all aside and wait for the cake to finish baking. I offer to help Marjory with her dinner preparations. She shows me how to baste the turkey, and how to roast and season Brussels sprouts so they don’t get all mushy. I hated them growing up, but that’s probably because they were served plain and had been steamed to death. 

When the cake is done baking, I take it out of the oven to cool. Marjory grabs me a cutting board, which I set atop the bundt pan, and once I've quickly flip the pan upside down to turn the cake out, we hold our breaths while I slowly lift the pan off the cooked cake. Did I grease the pan well enough? This is the moment of truth. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Marjory huffs with relief when I reveal a perfectly cooked gingerbread cake. I’m well pleased with myself, as she can probably tell from the goofy grin on my face. 

“What, didn’t you believe in me?” I ask, feigning offence. She just laughs and wanders off to check the turkey again. The cake will need to sit on the counter and cool before I ice it, so I collect all the bowls and other dishes I’ve used and set to washing them in the deep-basined sinks, of which there are three side-by-side to comply with washing, rinsing and sanitizing standards. 

“Marjory, how are dinner preparations coming?” A low voice calls out from across the room. I turn around to see Malcolm Grimm, already dressed for dinner, standing in the doorway. 

“Very well, sir,” Marjory assures him. Malcolm’s eyes rove over the pots bubbling on the stove and stop on me. 

“Mister Snow,” he says, surprised. “What are you doing in here? I assumed you would be with Basil.” 

“One of my puddings took a bit of a tumble,” I explain, careful to leave Marjory’s name out of it, “So I figured it’d be best to just whip up another, since I had the time.” Malcolm’s eyes narrow, flitting between me and the cake cooling on the counter. 

“I see,” he hums suspiciously. “We _do_ have a dishwasher, you know.” 

“S’just a few,” I shrug. “I don’t mind doing them by hand.” 

“Suit yourself,” he allows. “Dinner is in an hour. I will see you then, Mister Snow.” 

Once he’s gone, Marjory meets my gaze with raised eyebrows, as if to say, _Mister Snow, eh?_ Yes, Malcolm Grimm is for all intents and purposes my father-in-law, but I doubt he’ll ever call me by my given name. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

Snow comes tearing into my bedroom with just minutes to spare before dinner is supposed to begin, shouting about some sort of agreement he’s made with the girls. He pulls on his suit, haphazardly ties his shoes (it’s fine, no one will see them anyway) and asks me to tie his bowtie for him. He’s forgotten to take off his hairnet, so I do that for him, too, as well as brushing a bit of powdery flour from the side of his nose. 

“How do I look?” He asks, suddenly nervous. 

“Absolutely gorgeous,” I say truthfully. “And if we didn’t need to be downstairs in literally three minutes, I’d tear this suit off of you and show you how beautiful I think you are.” I receive an enthusiastic kiss for that, one that leaves me feeling dizzy. So dizzy, in fact, that I don’t even think to mention that one of his socks is navy and the other is black. 

We join my family in the dining room right on time. The girls squabble over who gets to sit beside Simon (not me), and once Father has pulled out Daphne’s chair for her, the rest of us take our seats. Vera helps the cook bring food out, and everyone but the smaller children dishes up for themselves. 

I’ve gotten better about eating in front of other people now that I’ve got a good handle on keeping my fangs drawn up, so for the first time, I join my family in actually eating the Christmas dinner. Simon gives my knee a squeeze beneath the table when he sees that my father, Daphne and Mordelia are all watching me chew my stuffing with relative ease. 

The stunned expression remains on my father’s face all through dinner, because Simon’s table manners are impeccable, for the first time ever. He lays his napkin over his lap, uses the correct forks and spoons for each course, and passes dishes around the table anti-clockwise. He doesn’t knock over his drink even once, and he never speaks with his mouth full. As far as Father is concerned, this is an entirely different Simon Snow. 

As if he can’t handle Simon maintaining propriety for a second longer, Father starts in on the most inflammatory line of questioning he can think of: asking Simon about his plans for the future. Fiona would be cackling if she were here, but she and her Normal boyfriend are spending the holidays in Majorca. 

“So, Mister Snow,” Father asks, patting his upper lip with his napkin. “Basil says you’ve taken up employment at a bakery. Do you see yourself working there long-term?” 

Simon’s shoulders stiffen, but his expression remains cool. 

“I love the work I’m doing now,” Simon tells him, “But the owner of the bakery has offered to sponsor me in part to attend a six-month intensive _pâtisserie_ course at Le Cordon Bleu starting in March.” 

“Simon, that’s amazing!” Daphne enthuses. If she could get up and hug him, I’m certain she would. 

“And will you be attending?” Father inquires, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m…considering it,” Simon says, hesitating for a moment. “I’ve been setting aside some money for the last year or so, but that’ll only cover so much.” He glances towards me, and I nod in encouragement. “Baz and I have been talking about finding a flat together, so I’ll need to sort out my finances either way.” 

“I see,” Father says tartly, his mouth settling into a frown. Daphne sets a hand on his arm in an attempt to temper his mood, but his expression remains hard. 

When dessert is served, Simon gives an explanation of each. My father attempts to look unfazed by the mention of eggnog glaze on the gingerbread cake Simon remade this afternoon, but a twitch of his eyebrow betrays him (to me, at least). Simon watches for a reaction as he takes his first bite, shooting me a secret smile when Father polishes the sliver of cake off and goes back for seconds. 

“How’s your cake, Father?” Mordelia asks innocently. _Nothing_ that child does is innocent. She’s incredibly calculating — the true schemer in the Grimm family. 

“Perfectly adequate.” 

He takes a third slice of that perfectly adequate cake and washes it down with a mug of warm, rum-spiked eggnog. Disgusting. 

“How were the biscuits?” Simon asks the girls, who were delighted by the fact that Simon had cut some of them into the shapes of trees and snowflakes, instead of just the traditional gingerbread boys and girls. 

“Very yummy!” Acantha says, wiping some crumbs from her lips with the sleeve of her dress. 

“Can I have another, Mum?” Ophelia asks Daphne, pretending to have only had two. 

“ _One_ more,” Daphne says sternly, holding up her index finger. “Father Christmas will know if you’ve taken more than you’re allowed.” Both of the girls’ eyes go wide, and they smartly leave the remaining biscuits on the plate to be eaten later. 

“Simon, what is the cost of tuition and supplies for this program you are considering?” Father questions evenly. Simon shrinks a bit in his seat and mumbles in answer, and is asked to repeat himself. 

“It’s just over £18,000, sir,” Snow responds. 

“And your employer is committed to covering how much of that?” 

“Half, sir.” 

Father presses his lips together and narrows his eyes for a moment before looking back up at Simon. “Daphne and I will cover the other half of the program cost, if you decide to enrol.” 

“I, uh—well, I can’t—you don’t mean,” Simon stammers, but I lean forward and give my father a polite smile. 

“That’s very gracious of you, Father,” I tell him. “Thank you.” 

“Right, thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Grimm,” Simon finally gets out. His face is turning a bit purple, but that’s not uncommon. He doesn’t incinerate the dining room in a blast of sudden, uncontrolled magic, which is an improvement from the way he reacted to being overwhelmed two years ago. 

When we are excused from dinner, Simon and I kiss the children goodnight, and retreat back up to my bedroom. We’ve hardly made it in the door before Simon collapses on the bed in shock. 

“D’you think he really meant it?” He bursts out. 

“My father doesn’t make offers like that unless he does,” I assure him, smiling in amusement. Snow is so dramatic sometimes. 

“Oh, Christ.” 

“I know it’s a lot to think about, darling,” I tell Snow, lying down alongside him. “But just consider it; there’s no need to decide right this moment.” 

“If I say yes, am I going to be indebted to your dad for life?” He asks weakly. 

“No more than you will be if you continue dating his son,” I say, chuckling. “It’s all relative.” 

Snow is quiet for another minute, but when I glance over at him, I see that a smug smile has crept over his lips. “What?” I ask curiously. 

“He called me ‘Simon’.”


End file.
